


Shibboleth

by antagonists



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 04:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: Chrom takes this moment to look around the place; it’s homely, definitely very witchy with its assortments of old trinkets and even older, stranger spellbooks. Most of them are written in a language he can’t decipher, but that might just be due to him having forgotten most of his linguistics studies.Assortments of animal bones, a tortoise shell, special scrying solution, and—alright, that’s a jar of eyeballs right there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [this tweet](https://twitter.com/craigslistlove/status/846420921036484610) inspired all this nonsense??

* * *

 

 

 

“How do you _slightly_ use a soul?” Chrom asks, reading through the list of ingredients and brewing instructions with an abject look of bafflement and horror.

 

“Well if you need one,” Robin says unhelpfully, scrolling through his tablet with one hand while mixing some brew with the other, “Someone’s got a good one up for sale on weeBay. Six-hundred-sixty-six gold.”

 

“Typical,” Chrom mutters, reading over the list one more time. “I thought you were gonna help Frederick get over his fear of bear meat.”

 

“Lon’qu comes first,” says his companion, having abandoned technology in favor of digging through his chest of herbs and other ilk of witchcraft elements. A handful of sage, pistachio shells, crumbled butternut, half-melted candles, metacarpal of a primate, and—is that an actual eyeball? Chrom shakes his head and looks away. He’s still unused to some of the more… _esoteric_ materials that come with this craft.

 

He’s better off with a sword or a lance, but has somehow managed to get convinced that modern-day witches shouldn’t have to rely on enchanted weapons. More or less. The only spells he’s able to master without too much trouble are usually the explosive ones, since Robin is the one who teaches him those. He doesn’t quite trust Henry to introduce him to the darker bits of witchcraft, even though Robin insists that he’s a superb instructor.

 

After the infamous body-switching incident and seeing Sumia cackle uncharacteristically for days, Chrom would rather not take his chances.

 

He begrudgingly orders the soul on weeBay.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As it turns out, no one can truly trust a shipping company to safely and successfully transport a soul. There have been too many incidents of inanimate objects growing legs and walking—er, floating—away, and some instances of the souls being strong enough to inhabit a living body for short periods of time. Normally, Chrom is too busy to pick up ingredients straight from the store, but, well.

 

Souls of good quality don’t show up very often, and he’d rather not use the ones from the skeevy antiques shop down Sixth Street and around a suspicious looking corner.

 

It’s a long drive; he’d barely convinced Frederick to let him go without a chauffeur or an expensive limo because _please Frederick, I got my license for a reason; I can drive safely_. Otherwise Frederick would positively jump at the opportunity to drive him around places just as he had when Chrom and Lissa were still in grade school, all trussed up to the neck in ugly uniforms and escorted out of a fancy blue limousine.

 

For the most part, the scenery is hours and hours of dry desert, but he manages to stay awake without too much trouble. Chrom tries to perform a quick Awakening spell on himself but somehow messes up and turns it into one that makes his voice very shrill and tinny for the better part of an hour. So by the time he pulls up into the parking lot of a fairly decent looking witch’s market, he’s made his throat hoarse from trying to talk himself out of his accidental helium experiment.

 

He steps into the shop and flinches at the door bell’s screeched welcome.

 

“How may I help you?” asks the clerk, dressed nicely in red robes. A golden nametag glints brightly in the atmospheric fairy lights of various colors. _Eirika_.

 

“Can I get, uh,” Chrom says, not fully recovered from his shock. “A soul? I ordered it a few days ago. M’here to pick it up.”

 

“Oh!” The clerk says. The ornaments on her hat change colors, flickering between blue pastels and summery greens, flowery hues and shallow ocean shores. “We’ve been expecting you. Please give me a moment.”

 

She disappears behind a shimmery, sheer curtain that seems to glow with bits of sea-essence, calling for someone. Chrom takes this moment to look around the place; it’s homely, definitely very witchy with its assortments of old trinkets and even older, stranger spellbooks. Most of them are written in a language he can’t decipher, but that might just be due to him having forgotten most of his linguistics studies.

 

Assortments of animal bones, a tortoise shell, special scrying solution, and—alright, that’s a jar of eyeballs right there.

 

In the corner, set upon a plush velvet cushion, a large crystal ball seems to wink at him. A gemstone collection glints softly from beneath dim display lighting, and twisting structures of driftwood cast odd shadows across the carpet and ceiling. At the other end, there’s an aquarium spanning an entire wall, filled with dark water and what seems to be rare species of fish. He’s in the middle of making a face at one when he hears footsteps behind him.

 

“Might not want to do that,” says a man, stooping slightly to get past the curtains without bumping his head. “Some of them copy your facial features, so you’ll have them wearing an imitation of your expression for days if you’re memorable enough.”

 

There’s a lot of family resemblance with the former clerk and this one. Chrom finds it a bit fascinating, since he knows that he and Lissa don’t share very many identical physical traits.

 

“Oh,” he says simply, and turns away from the aquarium. “Siblings, huh? Nice to meet you.”

 

“Indeed. Name’s Ephraim. And, actually, I wouldn’t mind if you kept making faces at them,” the clerk continues, leaning forward, elbows propped on the counter. He grins lazily, “Might be a nice change from staring at Seth’s poor face all day.”

 

“Uh,” Chrom says distractedly, then remembers what he’d come here for. “I take it you’re the seller?”

 

“Mhm. I’m surprised you didn’t mention anything about the price in the email.”

 

“Witch humor,” he says, and laughs since he doesn’t know what else to do. “And it’s a nice deal, too. You’re okay with card?”

 

“Card’s fine.” Ephraim sets an ornate case onto the counter, cracking open one side to reveal the glittering stone within. There’s something awfully sinister to how it shines, as though there’s some unkind spirit haunting it. The deepness of the color reminds him of the last dredges of sunset, and of the depths of vintage red wine. He remembers his mother having a ruby pendant with the same shy glimmer. “If this one isn’t compatible with whatever you’re working on, return it and I can exchange it for another.”

 

“You have another?” Chrom blinks. Even without years and years of training, he can still tell the soul trapped within the stone is powerful and well-nurtured. It’s not easy to find souls of such high tier, even less so to craft them to this degree of pliability and maturity. He eyes the stone warily. It’s bewitching enough that a clueless child might fall into a trance, privy to all the secrets and desires of the human soul. What’s left of the human, in any case.

 

“Oh, I have lots. It’s my specialty,” Ephraim says simply, as though crafting souls is not difficult at all. “The only thing I’m really good at, though. Eirika handles everything else.”

 

“Right,” Chrom says, and pulls his wallet out. As he swipes his card, his wallet _actually_ cackles at him until he slides the credit card back in and snaps it shut. He apologizes, embarrassed, but the guy merely laughs at his plight, eyes frigid like a frozen sea, calm like a slow river.

 

“Someone hex your belongings?”

 

“Something like that,” Chrom says, thinking of Vaike and his damned obsession with making all his belongings manage to laugh heinously. He tries not to stare too long at Ephraim’s fingers as he slides the case across. “Thanks for the soul.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After an especially trying evening at his daytime job, a journey of trudging through half-slush half-snow, Chrom shuffles into his home to find Robin scrying with a silver bowl of water. He drags his feet past, dumps his coat onto a chair, and promptly faceplants into the leather couch.

 

“Long day?” Robin asks, not looking up from the bowl. His eyes are almost eerie with how they reflect whatever he’s seeing.

 

“Whiny clients,” Chrom mumbles into the couch, then turns his head slightly so he can breathe. “What’re you looking at?”

 

“Seeing how those wards are faring,” Robin says, swiping his hand across the water to disrupt whatever accursed view of the Dragon’s Table he’d seen. “They’re doing alright, but I might have to make a trip out there in a few weeks.”

 

After he dumps the water into the kitchen sink, Robin lights two sticks of incense. Sandalwood. Chrom isn’t so fond of the smell, but he knows it’s one of Robin’s habits—one of the habits that help him think less upon the bad memories he has of that place and his father. He watches his friend tidy up, feeling as though he’s about to fall asleep until Robin places a box on the coffee table.

 

“Oh yeah,” he says, blinking groggily as he pulls himself back to the waking world. “I forgot about that.”

 

“I took a look at it while you were gone,” Robin says sheepishly. “It’s very… Fresh? Potent? I’d say it’s quite the deal for that price. I might have to buy from that seller once they come back with more stock.”

 

“He has more,” Chrom says, sitting up in a more socially acceptable position. “He said he had a lot, I think. Which seems pretty fishy to me, but if this one doesn’t have any problems, I’m willing to bet the others aren’t bad either.”

 

Robin hums thoughtfully, opening the container to gaze at the stone. It’s a perfect sphere, a small red globe of witchery and some poor soul. From past experiences, Chrom knows Robin is skilled enough to sift through some of a soul’s memories without damaging it, can even extract ones that could potentially cause error in the spell he’s using them for. He doesn’t mention how he’s come to learn of this skill.

 

“You never told me what you’re using this for,” Robin says. He doesn’t mean it in an accusing way, but Chrom feels guilty all the same.

 

“It’s, uh,” he manages, knowing full well that he’s a terrible liar (and that Robin is very perceptive). “Complicated.”

 

Dropping the subject, Robin returns the stone to its case and leans back to sigh. “Did the seller look suspicious? I might visit them if this level of quality is consistent with all their wares.”

 

“He’s tall,” Chrom says, not quite knowing why that’s the first detail that comes to mind. “Has really, really blue eyes, and he also laughed at my wallet. I think he works with his sister to maintain the place or something. They had lots of spellbooks I think you’d like, some weird statues, and some really weird fish.”

 

Robin gives him a strange look, and he stares back confusedly. “Okay, Chrom.”

 

“Did I say something strange?”

 

“Not at all,” Robin says lightly, and picks up a book from the table to leaf through. “But please, don’t fall asleep on the couch. Your clothes are still gross from outside.”

 

“This is my house,” Chrom grumbles, but goes to clean himself up anyways.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Uh, hello?” Chrom asks, peering into the quaint little shop sometime after failing the recipe. The bell at the door shrieks a welcome, its metal mouth stretched into a gruesome smile; he gives a little grimace back this time. After a quick glance around, he taps at the bell at the counter, wincing again when the noise it makes is less of a pleasant chime and more of a tortured croak.

 

The shop seems empty, but certainly not still. New dreamcatchers hang from the ceiling, twirling slowly as the fairy lights cycle through their dim and bright settings. Some of the statues have been replaced with newer ones, just as bent and outlandish as the ones previous. The same crystal ball rests on the dusty velvet cushion, but somehow seems more sinister now that he’s here later in the day.

 

He finds himself drawn to the aquarium again. Now that he looks closer, some of the fish do indeed have some human-like expressions, wearing disfigured imitations of somebody’s face. He squints at one, and lets out a startled yell when one morphs its expression into a parody of his own right before him, or at least what he thinks might be his face. He stares at the fish. Somehow, the imitation makes him feel very self-conscious of his appearance.

 

“It seems she’s taken an interest in you,” Ephraim says, not commenting on how Chrom jumps at the sudden realization that he isn’t alone. “She’s been wearing Seth’s face for as long as I can remember. He doesn’t like that I tease him for being attractive to fish.”

 

“Ephraim,” Chrom says. “You were here?”

 

“Wanted to see what you’d do in an empty shop,” Ephraim winks. “But in all seriousness, did you come back for an exchange? Something wrong with the soul you bought?”

 

“No, not really, at least—I don’t think so?” Chrom pulls the casing out of his pocket, running his thumb over the inlaid patterns. “I just.”

 

“You just?”

 

“I don’t know how to use it,” he admits quietly.

 

Ephraim stares at him for a moment, a puzzled furrow to his brow, but then he smiles softly. “Alright, I can help you with that. What’s the spell you’re using it for?”

 

“It’s for a friend,” Chrom says, pulling out the crinkled sheet of paper with all his scribbles and terrible handwriting. “He gets lots of bad nightmares, and I know he’s tried a least a hundred different spells without much success. I asked around and found some unnamed special blend that _theoretically_ should work. I hope.”

 

“Theoretically,” Ephraim echoes, eyes flicking over the ingredients and instructions. There’s an odd look of nostalgia and understanding to his expression, but Chrom thinks he might be reading too far into things. “Well, you have the right ingredients. Most of them, anyways; I would use a shattered black pearl bracelet over a manakete’s toe clippings, but I guess that’s personal preference.”

 

“You’ve seen this sort of recipe before,” Chrom says, noting the familiarity and ease in how Ephraim handles the clutter around him.

 

“I’m the one who originally came up with it,” Ephraim grins. It’s a bit sharp, a bit bitter, a little sad. “Never got to use it, but _theoretically_ it should work. Come to the back—I’ll show you how to mix the ingredients properly.”

 

Chrom isn’t terrible with kitchen knives, per say, since Robin insists that he learn how to cook in the extreme unlikeness that Frederick doesn’t regularly come over to cook him meals. Yet he looks at how Ephraim deftly trims through all the herbs and crushes nuts with the flat of the blade, and he’s feeling a bit outperformed.

 

“You said souls were the only thing you were good at doing,” he says dumbly. He takes the mushed paste Ephraim hands him and dumps it into the heating cauldron as best as he can, scraping off whatever clings to his palms. It’s gritty, earthy, and doesn’t smell all too pleasant. He’s used to this, though, from all the things that Robin likes to concoct in Chrom’s house, of all places.

 

“Old friend of my father taught me. Eirika’s really good at everything else, though. Much more balanced, to be honest,” Ephraim says, and leans over to flick rosewater into the mess. He smells of mint. The collective mixture flares into a bright pillar of violet flame for a moment before settling down into a bubbling lavender potion.

 

“Bro,” Chrom says, awestruck. Ephraim laughs. “What?”

 

“It’s just,” Ephraim says through his laughter. “That’s a very modern term. You seem, I dunno, somewhat old-fashioned, I guess? The kind who’d be all ‘I’ll have her home by ten, sir.’ Or the kind who has his own family recipe for moonshine.”

 

Chrom deliberately wipes his grimy hands on one of the towels on the table in response, trying not to focus too much on how Ephraim’s lips form around the word: _disgusting_.

 

Ephraim handwrites specific instructions for the rest of the spell. In particular: instructions on how to calm the soul, how to nudge very specific essences out at critical points of witching times, how to seal the rest of it for later use in a way that won’t have the spirit festering into a corrupt phantom. It’s a bit relieving to see that amidst all his talent, his handwriting is just as illegible as Chrom’s is, if not worse.

 

He’ll have to collect the tears of a divine dragon later. He also has yet to crack the soulstone open, yet to pour its bloody contents into the brew he’s trying to make for Robin. For now, Chrom’s mind thunders with numbness as he drives through the night desert, car headlamps casting two lonely beams of light onto blue sands.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Chrom has to wait until the next new moon to complete the last few steps of the spell, so in the meantime he focuses on his company and paperwork to take his mind off of things. This is work he’s familiar with—speaking with clients in terms that don’t have anything to do with witchery or hexes or potions. It’s an odd feeling to think that he’s more comfortable wearing a suit than he is poring over some arcane spellbook in a candlelit room. For the longest time, he’d needed Frederick to guide him with the proper business courtesies and procedures; now, he just feels rather old.

 

During his lunch break, he retreats to his office. The coffee machine in the commons works just fine, but he prefers mixing in his additives in peace where Gaius can’t see him. He’s about to dump his stash of creamers and sugar packets into his coffee when Frederick politely sticks his head into the office.

 

“There’s somewhere here to see you,” Frederick says. “I told him that he would not be able to meet with you outside of an appointment, but he insisted it was very important witch business. He’s waiting in the guest lounge.”

 

He can already guess who it might be. Chrom sighs.

 

“Shouldn’t you be at your shop?” he asks as he walks into the lounge, loosening his tie a tad so he can breathe easier. Ephraim is slouched in one of the chairs, flicking through a magazine with a combination of boredom and fascination at non-witchy subjects. Judging from the cover, it looks like some golf issue.

 

“Seth agreed to take my place for the day,” Ephraim says, neatly replacing the magazine and standing. “I convinced him that the fish isn’t wearing his face anymore.”

 

“Ah,” Chrom says, and sips at his fourth cup of coffee. He’d forgotten how tall Ephraim is.

 

“And I was also wondering what you did for a daytime job,” Ephraim says, staring at Chrom’s business attire, “since you don’t seem like a fulltime witch.”

 

“Unfortunate that I’m that obvious,” Chrom laments. “Well, I can’t promise you a tour around the place today; it’s kinda busy.”

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of taking you out to lunch.”

 

Chrom frowns. “Frederick won’t be happy.”

 

“Your butler? Reminds me awfully a lot of Seth, actually. I can tell him I’ll have you back in time for work if that’ll help.”

 

“I have an hour,” Chrom says, looking down at his watch. It’d been a present from Robin, a gadget mixed with modern clockwork and mysterious magic. From time to time, when there’s a weather warning, scenery of the skies will flicker onto the watch’s face. At night, it glows in time with the constellations that would be visible past all the light pollution. “Then I gotta get back to work.”

 

While the worst of winter has worn off, Chrom still thinks it’s a bit remarkable that Ephraim doesn’t shiver in the chill, wearing light clothing as he is. He chalks it up to enchanted clothing since, hell, what _isn’t_ enchanted nowadays, and trails the witch to the parking lot. Most of the holiday lights have been taken down, leaving the city looking a lot less festive and more of a deserted landscape with all its small mountains of dirtied snow.

 

Chrom takes a long look at the red moped. “That’s not a very sexy ride,” he says after a pause.

 

“Eirika told me I should be safer than sorry,” Ephraim chuckles, seating himself comfortably. “Next time, I can take you on my bike. I promise it’s much, _much_ sexier than this little one.”

 

“Right,” Chrom says, gingerly sitting in the back, and leans forward to find that Ephraim is about as warm as he’d expected.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He finishes the spell successfully, more or less. A little too many late nights for his comfort and general state of wellbeing, but Chrom feels as though he’s managed to pull the brew off without any major mishaps. He looks at the staggering tower of empty coffee cups, then at the massive pile of sugar and creamer packets mixed in with chalk dust, and decides that he’ll clean everything up later.

 

“I knew you were up to something suspicious,” Robin says when Chrom presents the concoction to him at last, but his voice wobbles on the edge of sentimental and touched. “You really didn’t have to.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Chrom rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I wanted to? Yeah.”

 

“The consistency is good,” Robin continues, peering at the potion, analyzing Chrom’s work with an experienced eye. “Nothing particularly wrong in terms of how it smells, and the color’s nice, too.”

 

Stifling a yawn, Chrom nods with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. In all honesty, he really just wants to pass out for the rest of the day, or even a few days. Sleeping for a couple of years doesn’t seem like a terrible prospect either. He doesn’t want to leave Robin alone, though, since he’s been staying up just as late and often as Chrom has for the past week, and it’s such a common occurrence that it’s a miracle he’s even conscious.

 

“Well,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “Would’ve botched it on my own. I had help, too.”

 

“From the soul seller.”

 

Robin is almost coy when he says this, but Chrom doesn’t notice it.

 

“Good night, Chrom,” Robin tells him when he’s leaving for the night, bundled up in his dark coat and scarf. “Don’t forget to take an extremely careful look at the casing when you have time, alright?”

 

He doesn’t quite get it until he does as he’s told, running his fingers over the wooden box with tired, trembling fingers. The gold inlay is a nice touch, and he rests easy knowing that the partially used soul inside is as intact as it can be. Below the small catch, though, is a line of tiny engraved script. Numbers, he recalls, but not Arabic, so it takes him a while to decipher them.

 

“Oh,” he says when he finally does, and imagines Ephraim’s laughter, clearer than a stream of water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [shibboleth origins](http://www.dictionary.com/browse/shibboleth)


End file.
